


Temptation's Wings

by Euphyxia



Series: Apocalypse Blue [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Arcade is a perv, Bathroom Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Oral Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4099066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphyxia/pseuds/Euphyxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something about Courier Six.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temptation's Wings

**Author's Note:**

> I realized after writing this that the Atomic Wrangler suite does not in fact have a bathroom. I am choosing to ignore this fact.
> 
> This piece can be read on its own. It was intended as a one-shot, but I'm working on a follow-up.

There's something about Courier Six. Everyone knows it.

Arcade knew it the moment the kid turned up in Freeside with that eyebot of his. Six had a reputation, even back then. The damn courier that just wouldn't die. Arcade was so curious. He tells himself he joined Six to make a difference in the wasteland. That's still what he wants, more or less. Though he's starting to think there are about a dozen other things he wants, now, along the way.

Six is young, maybe nineteen, and he's built lean, like a true courier. Not a lot of meat on his bones after running packages across the desert for a living. But he doesn't need the bulk, or the height; the kid's got reflexes like a cat.

He wears this dirty old trader cap, over a mop of wild blue hair. He's got a bit of a fixation with his own hair, Six does. Likes to pop his cap off once in a while to run his hands through it. It's usually greasy when he does this, plastered to the back of his neck, matted with sweat and dirt, but he does it all the same. 

And for those few moments, Six's hair is always the most colourful thing in the wastes.

Arcade stares at him a lot, those first few weeks. Likes to walk behind Six when they're travelling. And it works, their little marching order. Six prefers to scout ahead with his laser rifle anyway, while Arcade hangs back between him and the robot. Only when the Mojave falls quiet around them does Arcade dare admire the outline of the kid's body in that leather armour.

_He's too young for you, Arcade,_ says the voice of reason. Most of the time, they've got bigger problems. But he definitely doesn't stop looking at Six. Never that.

Six is a bit disturbed, truth be told. But he's doing right by Arcade, even if he does take a bit too much pleasure in slitting a fiend's throat every once in a while. Arcade can't really blame the kid, not after what Benny did to him. There's anger there, some of it on the surface, some deep beneath, where Six doesn't think anyone can see. But the doctor's become pretty damn good at reading him. 

They end up back at the Atomic Wrangler one night. Six's armour is caked in dirt and god only knows what kind of spore guts from Vault 22, not that Arcade's lab coat has fared much better. Still, Six goes straight for the bar. All Arcade wants is a shower. He heads up to their rented room, leaves the kid with the robot and a bottle of whiskey.

The doctor takes his time in the shower, scrubbing every last trace of the wasteland off his body. Not until his skin feels raw does he finally step out of the spray. He's probably the cleanest person for miles around now. He smiles at the thought, rummaging through his pack for something to wear. He settles on a clean t-shirt and some cargos.

By the time Arcade returns to the bar, the kid's nearly halfway through the bottle. There's a cigarette hanging from his lips, and judging by the ashtray, it's not his first of the night. Six smokes like a chimney. Maybe it's to placate his itchy trigger finger, perhaps he's just addicted. Though Arcade suspects it's more of an oral fixation than anything. Six's lips _do_ look good wrapped around a cigarette. _I wonder what else they'd look good wrapped around?_ the doctor thinks, though the voice of reason is quick to bury that thought deep.

Arcade briefly considers a game of blackjack. He's got some chips left from the last time they stayed here. But he can only feign disinterest in the courier for so long. Six probably doesn't want his company; the kid's perfectly content to drink alone most nights, seems to prefer it, even, but Arcade claims the seat next to him anyway. 

It's just them, at the bar. They haven't seen much of James Garrett since they brought back that sexbot, and the few guards still on duty are in the next room, keeping an eye on the tables. Arcade takes the opportunity to reach over the deserted counter for a glass. He pours himself a double, feeling the kid's eyes watching his movements, and gestures to the half-empty bottle.

"You ever going to tell me where you learned to drink like that?" Arcade asks. He still doesn't know much about the courier, though it's not for lack of trying. It's been months and Six won't even tell him his real name.

In all fairness, Six is a man of few words, even piss-drunk. He glances up, though, and quirks a dark eyebrow at Arcade from under the brim of his cap. It's perhaps the first time they've looked each other in the eye all day. Too much time spent with weapons drawn, watching each others backs. It's a shame, really. The kid has beautiful eyes. They're blue, just like the crudely-dyed strands of hair poking out from beneath his hat.

Six doesn't say anything, just grabs the whole damn bottle of whiskey off the counter and knocks back a few mouthfuls. Arcade doesn't tell him to slow down, doesn't warn him how much of that whiskey's going to end up in the toilet later that night. It won't make a lick of difference. The kid's stubborn as hell, sometimes to the point of childishness, and he's got a competitive streak a mile wide. 

But out in the wastes, where it really counts, Six is far beyond his years. He's sharp, some kind of genius when it comes to electronics. Can hack any terminal in the Mojave. Builds his own laser rifle out of scavenged parts like it's nothing. Even slaps a homemade beam splitter on the thing that can vaporize a nightkin with a single microfusion cell.

Oh yeah, the kid's definitely good with his hands. 

Six takes a long drag on his cigarette. Arcade downs his drink, feels the courier watching as he goes for another. It's not long between the two of them before the bottle's down to less than a quarter. 

The background noise inside the casino seems to all but disappear at that point, and Arcade's having a hard time remembering why he's not supposed to be staring at Six's mouth.

"Had enough, Doc?" the kid asks. His lips curl up into a little shit-eating grin. Arcade fights the very real urge to wipe that look off Six's face with a kiss. Or maybe his fist. He's not quite sure yet.

"You can quit giving me that look now," Arcade says instead, adjusting his glasses. "I wasn't trying to match you drink for drink."

Six tilts his head back and laughs like it's the funniest damn thing he's heard all day. For a moment, Arcade catches a glimpse of the kid's sharp incisors; he's noticed them before, but fuck, they're a little scary up close like this. Makes him look almost feral when he laughs. Arcade wonders how sharp they really are... wonders if he'd cut himself running his tongue over them.

God, at this rate, the doctor might just have an oral fixation of his own. It must be obvious, with the way he's staring, but he can't bring himself to look away. Doesn't even want to.

Six merely grins. "Too bad," he says, stamping out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. He takes one last gulp from the bottle and drains the fucking thing dry. Then he meets Arcade's eyes and drags his tongue across his bottom lip, achingly slow.

The cocky little shit. He _knows_. Maybe he's known all along. He's clearly enjoying rubbing it in Arcade's face.

The doctor is both furious and extremely aroused by this.

"Meet me upstairs," Six tells him. And is it Arcade's imagination, or does the courier lean into him a little as he says those words? The moment passes too quickly to be sure, and it's clear the kid's not waiting for any sort of reply. He's out of his seat in a heartbeat, disappearing up the stairs with the robot floating along in his wake.

Christ. Arcade lets out a tense breath and shifts restlessly on the bar stool. He's spent so much time studying Six these past few weeks that he's left himself an open book. The kid can see right through him. It's a thought that should bring shame to the doctor's cheeks. The voice of reason should be screaming inside his head. Instead, Arcade wants to laugh, and not just because he's drunk. It's Six's reaction. The kid knows—or at least _suspects_ —that Arcade is a huge pervert, and doesn't even seem bothered by it. Either he values the doctor's medical skills too much to cut him loose, or he's truly not bothered by it. Which means that the invitation he's just extended could very well be exactly what Arcade's hoping it is.

Not that he needs an invitation to meet Six upstairs. They're already sharing the rented room, if not the bed. When there's only one to go around, they usually flip a poker chip for it. The loser gets stuck on the floor in their bedroll. A sore neck usually accompanies, but Arcade's wondering now if that's all going to change.

He's a little unsteady as he rises to his feet, but he's not completely shitfaced. Thank God for small miracles. By the time he makes it upstairs, the robot's waiting outside the door. The courier always tells it to stand guard outside, no matter where they're hunkered down for the night. Arcade's secretly glad. He doesn't think he could stand having the thing watch him sleep. It's creepy. Case in point, the way it beeps happily at him as he passes. The doctor frowns, ignoring the thing, and slips through the door.

Six is in the process of peeling off his dirty leather armour when Arcade enters. He's only made it as far as his ammo belt and shoulder guards, but he's still technically undressing, and Arcade freezes just inside the doorway. Blue eyes dart up at the sound of the robot's little jingle, and the kid pauses. He drinks in the doctor's presence from beneath the brim of his cap, but says nothing.

The room's silent around them. "How long have you known?" Arcade asks. It's all he can think to say in that moment, and honestly, he's curious.

Six merely smiles and continues undressing. He props his foot up on the edge of the bed, bending slightly to attend to his boots. He makes quick work of the laces and yanks the boots off one by one. His eyes never leave Arcade's. It's not long before the kid peels the thick leather suit down and off his body, kicking it free of his legs. His chest is bare, the pale skin scarred in various places. He's clad only in a thin pair of boxers.

"You're not as subtle as you think," Six tells him.

The doctor quirks an eyebrow, feels obliged to comment. "Is that why you invited me up here?" Arcade's more aware than ever of the liquid courage in his belly. He can feel its warmth slowly uncoiling the tension in his limbs. "Or are you just teasing me with what I can't have?"

The kid probably reeks of sweat after being inside that armour all day. There's a thin layer of dirt all over him, smeared across the planes of his chest, down to the smooth dip of his waist. The boxers are slung low on his skinny hips, and Arcade's eyes are drawn to the jutting hipbones just visible above the kid's waistband.

Six tugs off his cap and tosses it with the rest of his discarded armour. Blue strands are plastered to his forehead, flattened in the shape of the hat.

"Never said you couldn't have it," he says. There's a hint of molten heat in his eyes.

Six's words send a dizzying sense of possibility through the doctor. He should have known the kid wouldn't hesitate. He never does, at least not out in the wastes.

So that's it. The green light. Arcade's left with the frightening realization that it might be up to him now, to take this further.

"You need a shower," he says, and is met with no disagreement.

There's a playful smirk on Six's lips—when _isn't_ there?—as he nods and slips into the bathroom. He leaves the door open, which Arcade's sure is on purpose, and the modest suite is soon filled with the sound of running water.

Then, from inside the bathroom comes the courier's voice. "You gonna watch or what?"

Arcade's voice of reason has long since left the building. His feet, seemingly on autopilot, carry him into the bathroom. He steps on something soft just inside the doorway and realizes it's the kid's boxers, pooled on the floor. Arcade swallows, lifts his gaze to the shower. There's no curtain, nothing to block the path of his view and he gets an eyeful of Six's ass under the spray.

The dirt is running off his body, layer by layer, colouring the water at his feet a muddy brown. The courier's hands are raised, tangled in his hair, as he teases the sweat, grime and occasional knot out of the longish blue strands. 

A sharp breath slips past Arcade's lips at the sight. He swallows again, his mouth has gone oddly dry, and moves further into the small room. He makes it to the counter, grabs the edge on either side of him for extra support and leans there, facing the shower. Watching.

He's at a profile angle of the kid now, and god, Arcade can barely think. For all the various states of undress they've seen each other in during their travels, none of it's been sexual. Climbing in and out of armour, washing their clothes in various bathtubs and irradiated ponds. Arcade only stole glances when he thought Six wasn't looking, always stopping himself short of open appreciation. But his eyes drink their fill now, roaming down between the kid's thighs. He gets a glimpse of Six's dick nestled there, below a dark spread of hair that matches the kid's eyebrows and the inch or so of roots that have grown in on his head. It hangs low, already half-hard, and Arcade's not unaffected himself. His blood is running south with abandon. Between his growing arousal and the whiskey, he's left a little lightheaded, clutching hard at the edge of the counter. His knuckles are probably white by the time Six's eyes finally meet his.

At that point, the kid shifts to face him, and it's clear he's got no intention of stopping the show. He uses a wet cloth to scrub away what the warm water alone couldn't manage, and damned if he doesn't use perfectly slow, measured motions to do it. Drags the cloth up a trim thigh, rolls it over one of those sharp hipbones. Arcade's eyes are hungry, following Six's hand like they're tethered to it by an invisible string.

It's not long before the evidence of their earlier vault expedition is washed down the drain. In fact, all trace of the wasteland is gone, save for the scars it's left on the courier's body. Arcade has seen most of them before. Some he's even tended to, back when they were fresh wounds. They look different somehow, under the stream of water cascading down Six's lithe form.

Arcade's suddenly hyper-aware of the uncomfortable tightness in the front of his cargos. He shifts his hips before he can stop himself. The movement draws Six's attention, and that burning gaze is quickly fixed between Arcade's legs. An exhilarating flush rises in the doctor's cheeks as the kid sizes him up through the material.

Six's own erection strains between his thighs now. There's an almost pained expression on his face before he makes a split-second decision to wrap his long, dextrous fingers around it. Arcade nearly hisses as he watches Six flick his wrist once, then twice, making the head of his cock disappear into his closed fist.

Christ, the kid's a fucking exhibitionist. No wonder Arcade's lightheaded. At this rate, there won't be any blood left above his waist.

He finds his voice, somehow. Has to dart his tongue out over dry lips before he speaks. "You like teasing me, don't you?"

Six lets his dick slip from his palm, but the red-hot look in his eyes says _yes_. He shuts off the water and stands there, just dripping onto the floor for several moments. Arcade's about ready to step in there with him when Six gently shakes out his mop of hair, like a wet dog. There's a light spray of droplets, some of which reach Arcade. They're warm where they hit his face and arms. The gesture has the unintended effect of making Six's cock bounce rather enticingly between his legs. At that point, Arcade's gripping the edge of the counter so tight he thinks he might snap two identical pieces of it off in his hands.

"Get over here," he says. It doesn't even sound like his voice.

Six steps out of the stall, draws within a few feet him. It's so rare seeing him up close like this, especially scrubbed clean. For all his toughness in the wastes, the kid's got pretty soft features. And fuck, those lips. _Dick-sucking lips_ , Arcade thinks shamelessly. God, he's spent so much time watching them pucker around the filter of a cigarette, he just has to experience the fantasy for himself.

Arcade grabs the courier's wet hand, bringing the palm of it down over the front of his cargos. That first contact between them is electric, and Six takes the initiative, grinding his palm into the bulge when the doctor lets his own hand fall away. He's not exactly gentle, which is good, because Arcade doesn't want him to be. It's friction, at last, and he can't help but groan at the way Six is using the heel of his palm so roughly. It's like he already knows Arcade's not quite his mild-mannered self in bed. 

The questions that raises stop mattering the second Six's fingers begin working at his fly. There's a wicked look in his eyes when he finally gets his hands around Arcade's cock, like he's been waiting just as long for this moment. Which is yet another thing that makes no sense, but Arcade's not prepared to ponder that just now.

As it turns out, the courier _is_ good with his hands. The pads of his fingers are rough, but it just adds to the friction as he drags them up the underside of Arcade's length. The kid's too impatient to even shove Arcade's pants down; he's exposed only through the fly of the cargos, but the doctor kind of likes it, being clothed with Six completely naked next to him. The kid's skin is still dripping wet, and slippery, as Arcade discovers when he reaches around to grab a handful of Six's ass.

Their faces are close, then, and it's Six who leans up, teasingly slow, to bring their mouths together.

Arcade can't remember how long it's been since he's kissed someone. Too long. Much longer than it's been since his dick saw some action, and he's pressing his tongue past Six's lips in an instant. He tastes like cigarettes, there's a hint of the whiskey there too, and together it's a heady mix. The kid moans a little when Arcade kisses him deep. He's still got a hand on Arcade's cock, is fisting it slowly. His own is pressed against the older man's clothed thigh, and shit, it's like steel. Arcade can feel the intimate heat of it through the fabric, rutting against him.

Arcade's hands soon find their way up to Six's head, holding it in place as he continues kissing him. He takes his time playing with the courier's tongue. Arcade's a good kisser. He doesn't need the kid's reactions to tell him that, but does he ever enjoy them anyway. Six has opened to him completely, lets Arcade take what he wants. But he hasn't surrendered. He's still playful, nipping at Arcade's lips, while one hand continues stroking down his length with those deft fingers.

Things escalate quickly from there. One of Arcade's hands finds its way into the kid's mop of blue hair. It's softer than he expects, even wet, and he grabs a handful, yanks Six back by it. The motion bares the kid's throat, makes him arch his back. Arcade glances down to admire the sight this makes, which is about the time he notices the precum smeared over his thigh where the kid's been rubbing his cock.

It's nice to see Six desperate for a change.

"Want it, do you?" Arcade asks. The hand on him has stilled, he notices. But it remains in place, hot around the tip of him.

Six pulls a little against the grip on his hair, testing the waters, but he's not going anywhere. Not without ripping some of it out, anyway. The kid swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing delightfully under the sudden scrutiny. His head is bent back far enough that he has to look down his nose to meet Arcade's gaze.

" _Yeah_ ," he chokes out, and it's almost as good as a _please_ or a _fuck me_ in the way he grits the word.

Arcade leans into him then, licks a long, languid trail from the kid's collarbone all the way up to his jaw. It makes Six shudder. By the end of it, he's nearly trembling in Arcade's hands. 

And to think he started out so cocky. 

"I want your mouth," Arcade says, his breath hot in the kid's ear, and there's no mistaking what he means by it. He releases his grip on Six's hair, letting the blue strands slip through his fingertips as the kid straightens up. They're still incredibly close. Six's eyes are half-lidded with lust. A flush comes to his cheeks as he drops willingly onto his knees.

Arcade's gaze follows him down. He pushes several wet locks of hair off Six's forehead, hissing when that mouth envelops him.

The kid swirls his tongue around the tip, inches closer to take more of Arcade in, and _fuck_ , he's definitely done this before. Not that the doctor had any illusions about unconquered territory. He knows he can't be the only person in the wastes to have noticed those lips.

Arcade's fingers reach to tangle in the that blue hair again. Now that's he's felt it for himself, he's starting to understand the appeal. Something about the way it curls at the back of the kid's neck makes him breathless. So, too, does the way Six is swallowing him down, the way he glances up with that desperate, needy look in his eyes. Arcade's so turned on by it, he can barely resist fucking into the courier's mouth.

Six's hands are gripping the doctor's thighs for support, leaving his own dick neglected and harder than ever between his legs. The sight of him on his knees like that, lips wrapped around Arcade's cock... it sends a perverse thrill up Arcade's spine. He's brought himself off fantasizing about this, with Six asleep in the bedroll next to him. Now that it's really happening, his control is quickly spreading thin.

He notices, belatedly, that one of the kid's thumbs has been stroking over the smeared precum on his cargos. Arcade can't help but grin at that. He's feeling bold, no doubt a byproduct of the whiskey, and before things go any further, Arcade yanks Six off him by the hair. It's darkly satisfying, controlling him like that, and his dick slips free of the kid's mouth with a _pop_. There's a tiny spindle of saliva still connecting the two as he pulls Six back to look at him. 

"Suck a lot of cock running packages?" he teases.

The courier actually laughs at that, even as he's catching his breath. It gives Arcade another glimpse of those sharp incisors. And shit, they're as much of a turn-on as everything else about this kid.

"I could pop you so easy..." Six boasts. The words are nearly a moan, and god, the return of that arrogance is invigorating. But Six doesn't stop there; he lets his eyes drop back down between Arcade's thighs, watches his cock jump at the thought. But the doctor's not moving a muscle, and Six is too impatient. He soon rises up on his haunches, tries shamelessly to get that heated flesh back in his mouth.

Arcade's fingers coil more tightly into the kid's hair, and he keeps his dick purposefully out of reach. Six lets out a little frustrated noise that shoots straight to Arcade's core.

"Now who's teasing who?" the kid asks, but his eyes are molten hot. Arcade does want more, though, and uses his grip to pull Six up off his knees. He doesn't have to tug very hard; the courier catches on quickly and rises to his feet.

Their height disparity has Arcade peering down a bit to meet Six's eyes, and fuck is that imbalance ever hot. Arcade's taller. He's stronger. He's older. The doctor's never thoroughly acknowledged how arousing he finds that combination. It pleases something deep inside his lizard brain, and before he knows it, he's flipping them around, bending Six over the edge of the counter.

"I'm not sure you realize what you've gotten yourself into," he warns, digging blunt fingernails into those firm, wet hips.

The kid merely looks over his shoulder, grins the same shit-eating grin from the bar. "You get this handsy with all your patients, Doc?"

He's got a sense of humour. Isn't that cute. Arcade's going to enjoy fucking that smile right off his face.

He shoves a palm between the kid's shoulder blades, forcing him down further over the hard surface. It presents his ass quite nicely, and if the sharp noise the kid makes is any indication, probably traps his cock against the lip of the counter in the process.

Arcade's on autopilot at that point. He pops several fingers into his mouth, wetting them with saliva, and presses them at Six's entrance. The first one he slips inside draws the most erotic noise out of the kid. It's a soft whine, better than anything Arcade's heard yet, and he pushes the finger further inside. Curls it, revels in the way the courier's muscles slowly adjust to the intrusion. It's soon joined by another, and with the second digit, Arcade's able to prepare Six a little better, work him open a little more.

He's still tight around those fingers when Arcade draws back, but there's not much patience left in him now. Arcade's cock is already slick with the kid's saliva; it's throbbing, straining from his open fly. All he wants is to be _inside_ that body. He's nearly dizzy with need as he presses in behind Six. It's delicious, the feel of his cock nudging against the kid's hole. Arcade's got a vice-like grip on Six's flank as he pushes forward.

The kid grunts when the tip breaches him. He's breathing hard, bracing himself as best he can against the counter top. The warmth of him is incredible. Arcade's nearly forgotten how good this feels. He pushes in further, buries himself deeper as a low moan escapes his lips.

The kid's skin is still wet from the shower. He's dripping onto the floor at their feet, water droplets beading off his back and legs. The front of Arcade's cargos are damp where their bodies are pressed together, but the doctor barely notices. He's too taken by the soft heat, the overwhelming pressure, the feel of the kid's body slowly acclimatizing. Arcade gives him a moment's pause, occupies himself by dragging his fingers along the slight arch of Six's spine. 

When he finally does bury himself to the hilt, it's one rough motion. The momentum rocks them both forward, draws a sharp cry out of the kid. Six's cock has got to be weeping, trapped the way it is. Arcade can only imagine the sight it makes, slick and swollen, captured between his abdomen and the counter. He almost wants to get a look, but he's not about to change their position for anything. Besides, the kid can't get at himself this way. Arcade's in control of his pleasure, and the doctor is thoroughly enjoying it.

He starts to move after that, to fuck the kid in earnest, and the noises he receives are almost as incredible as the act itself. It's exhilarating to finally break those tight lips wide open, to hear more out of Six than he ever has before. It doesn't matter that they aren't words. The breathy gasps and grating moans are better. Enough, even to make up for what the kid lacks in conversational skills.

_It's always the quiet ones_ , Arcade thinks to himself. Must be why he lusts after them.

The doctor continues his pace, slamming Six's hips into the counter with every thrust, and it's not long before the kid's glancing back over his shoulder, licking his lips. He isn't quite beyond words.

"That the best you got?"

Arcade should have known that stubborn, competitive spirit would make another appearance. He's delighted at the opportunity to take the kid down a few pegs, and fucks him harder, fresh sweat beading on his forehead as he slams home. One particularly punishing thrust hits that sensitive spot he's been looking for, the one deep inside the kid that makes his jaw go slack and his muscles clench tight around Arcade's cock.

Christ, Arcade's so close. He's _been_ close this whole time. He's secretly thankful that his own competitive streak has reared its ugly head, because it's through sheer willpower that he keeps himself at a manageable plateau. Damned if he's going to let Six outlast him. Especially now that Arcade's got a new weapon at his disposal.

The assault on the kid's prostate proves fruitful. Before long Six is writhing beneath him, clawing at the counter, driving himself back with every brutal thrust. It's the most erotic thing Arcade has ever seen, watching the courier desperately trying to fuck himself. He can't help but reach for that hair again, grabs a wet, blue handful and uses it as leverage to arch the kid's back.

"Ah... shit," Six moans, his throat opened at the strained angle. " _Harder_." His voice is like sandpaper.

Arcade's all too happy to oblige. He drives in, buries himself impossibly deep, and the pleasure is almost too much. He's biting down on his lip, dancing dangerously close to the edge. But the next time he drives home, Six lets out this amazing, shuddering breath. The kid's body jerks under him, muscles clenching as he spills hard over the edge of the counter.

Arcade's so relieved he can barely breathe. One more thrust and he lets himself go. The pleasure coiling inside him explodes though his body, ripping a growl from his lips. Arcade rides it out, head tossed back, one hand still tangled in Six's hair.

Their laboured breaths are the only sound in the bathroom for some time after that. The kid's gone boneless beneath him, like he's truly been fucked within an inch of his life. Arcade finds it strangely endearing. He lets go of the courier's hair, gently slipping free of him as he pulls back. Six is slow to right himself, but once he does, he turns and brings them face to face again.

Now that they're both sated, the fire has died down. The kid's pupils are blown wide, and he's got this relaxed, fucked-out look to him that Arcade can't stop admiring. One of his hands snakes up the kid's chest of its own accord, fingers splaying over still-damp skin. He pauses to brush a nipple, chuckles when the kid's only reaction is a halfhearted grunt. Eventually the doctor's hand finds its way up to Six's chin. He's lost in those soft features for a moment, watches the kid blink at him several times from beneath dark lashes. It's odd, considering what they've just shared, but this up-close scrutiny actually seems to make Six uncomfortable. He tries to turn away, but Arcade won't let him. He tightens his grip on the kid's jaw to keep him in place.

It's that stupid cap, Arcade realizes. Six doesn't have it on. He can't hide under the brim like he always does, and without it, he's nervous.

Quite honestly, Arcade's baffled. He's watched this kid slit a fiend's throat with a rusty switchblade, watched him beat a feral ghoul to death with the butt of his laser rifle—all without a care, like it was just another Tuesday in the wastes. He's seen Six hurt, bleeding, dosing himself up with psycho and stimpacks...

But vulnerable? Never.

Arcade leans into him, brings their faces close. When he captures Six's lips, it's gentle. There's more driving him this time than lust. The kid responds to him in kind, kisses him back, all soft lips and softer tongue. It feels like yet another victory. 

They draw apart for breath after a while, but Arcade's hands are glued to Six's body. One is ghosting over the stubble along the kid's jaw, while the other slides over a wet hip. By that point, Arcade can't tell how much of the moisture on Six's skin is water and how much is sweat, but he doesn't care either way. Especially when he notices the evidence of his own pleasure is trickling down the inside of the kid's thigh.

They could both probably use another shower. But that can wait. 

"You want a smoke?" Arcade asks.

He doesn't really need to ask, he thinks, tucking himself back into his cargos. The kid nods, and Arcade pops out into the suite to retrieve them. When he returns with Six's pack, the courier is sitting on the floor, back resting against the counter. He's still naked, but whatever vulnerability Arcade had seen moments ago is now buried.

Arcade sits down next to him and pulls two cigarettes out of the pack. He hands one to Six and lights them both with a single match. It takes him a healthy moment to break the silence. 

"You knew."

Six rests an arm across his bent knee. He's smiling, a little, around his cigarette. "I did."

It isn't such a surprise, really, now that Arcade thinks about it. Six could never have survived this long in the wastes without some keen observational skills.

"Shit, if I'd known you were gonna fuck me like that, I'd have done this sooner," the kid offers.

Arcade laughs and adjusts his glasses. He's more relaxed in that moment than he's been in a long time. "I guess I'm a little bossy in bed," he concedes, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

The kid quirks a dark eyebrow at him, as if to ask _just a little?_ But he doesn't need to say the words. The gesture does all the talking. That's just the way it is with Six.

The kid's pretty good company, Arcade decides. He doesn't mind that the conversation is usually one-sided. It makes every word out of Six's mouth that much more interesting.

"We still going to flip for the mattress?" Arcade asks. 

They both need a good sleep after the day they've had, but he wouldn't be offended if the kid wanted to keep things the same. One whiskey-fuelled tryst doesn't make them lovers. Arcade's had enough casual sex over the years to know the score.

The kid nods, and Arcade tugs a Wrangler chip out of his pocket. He never did make it to the blackajck tables, he thinks, as Six calls the logo side. The courier usually wins these things. He's got luck on his side, after all, having survived a gunshot wound that should have killed him. But its not the Wrangler's logo they see when Arcade lifts his palm. The denomination stares back at them, and the doctor has to smile. Perhaps he's been the lucky one today.

"I suppose you should at least get the shower first, then," Arcade offers, gesturing to the sticky mess between kid's legs. "Unless you plan on letting that dry." He's tempted, for a moment, to reach out and smear his fingers through it. Maybe he just wants to touch Six again. But the moment's gone when the kid stands up and ashes his cigarette butt on the counter.

He makes for the shower stall, but throws a glance back over his shoulder. "One show not enough for you, Doc?"

The kid's not kicking him out, Arcade realizes. He could sit there on the floor and watch the whole thing a second time. It's an enticing proposition, especially with the excellent view of the courier's ass he's currently getting, but Arcade's too tired to enjoy it properly.

The doctor pushes himself to his feet. "I'll have to take a raincheck on that."

There's a grin on Six's face, but he says nothing as he starts up the shower. Arcade leaves him to it with a matching grin of his own.

Once he's back in the suite, the doctor finishes his cigarette and strips naked. He yanks on a clean pair of boxers before collapsing onto the mattress. The weariness sets in immediately. Arcade peels off his glasses and sets them on the nightstand. He forgets all about the covers as his eyes fall shut. He's soon drifting off, lulled to sleep by the soft sound of the shower running in the adjacent room.

The next time Arcade comes to, the suite's dark. He's probably been out a few hours, and the sheets are pulled up around his shoulders. It's not his own doing—Arcade hasn't been known to move much in his sleep. 

The doctor yawns, pushing himself up onto his elbows. It takes him a moment to find the courier's bedroll through the darkness, especially without his glasses. Six is close by, rolled up to his neck in the insulated canvas sack. He's facing away from the bed, but Arcade can tell by his breathing that he's not asleep.

Arcade knows he should leave the kid be, let him sleep. They're both tired. They've got sensitive data from Vault 22 that needs delivering in the morning. But something tells him it's the right moment to reach out, and he does.

"Six?"

The kid rustles in his bedroll and grunts.

"I hope you realize you don't have to sleep on the floor."

Arcade can almost imagine Six's response. Something snarky like: _you trying to get into my pants again, Doc?_ But the courier's too groggy for a witty remark. Arcade hears more rustling, though, and he can just make out the kid's silhouette turning toward the bed.

"I intend on keeping my hands to myself," Arcade adds for good measure. "If you were wondering."

The kid snorts. Arcade can't tell if it's in disbelief or just amusement. Either way, Six is soon out of his bedroll and climbing onto the mattress. The thing's probably older than either of them; it dips and creaks even under the kid's modest weight. Arcade scoots back to allow him ample room, and Six climbs in under the covers.

There's nothing sexual about the arrangement. Not when they're so far apart, anyway. They've each got their own side of the mattress, and that's how it should be. _Doesn't matter that I just fucked his brains out,_ Arcade thinks to himself. They're not lovers. They're not really even friends. Just allies, and that's a rare enough commodity in the wasteland.

Conscience soothed, Arcade flips over and focuses on sleep. Now that they're not facing one another, it's easier to forget Six is there. He can still hear the courier's steady breathing, but even that soon fades into the background as Arcade begins to drift off. But he never quite makes it. There's a bit of rustling from the kid's side of the bed, and suddenly Six is crossing the distance between them, sliding in close behind Arcade. A long arm drapes itself over the doctor's midsection. The warm, clean skin against his back and and stomach is unexpected, and Arcade tenses, if only for a second.

"I don't remember anything from before Benny shot me," Six reveals. His voice is barely a whisper. "That's why I haven't told you my name."

Arcade has to glance over his shoulder at the kid, because, _fuck_ , this is news to him. He thinks back to when they first met at the Fort all those weeks ago. Six said that Benny _had_ taken his life, not just attempted to. Arcade hadn't known what to make of the comment back then. He thought maybe it was just a figure of speech he didn't understand.

Well, the kid's behaviour makes a helluva lot more sense now.

"I'm not looking for sympathy," Six adds, almost defensively. "You don't have to say anything. I just thought you should know."

As a doctor, Arcade's first instinct is to help. He considers telling Six that the amnesia might not be permanent, but he knows the odds. It's a slim chance, given how much time has passed, and New Vegas is a cruel enough place without false hope.

"We'll find out your name," Arcade tells him. "You worked for Mojave Express. They must have records."

Six doesn't reply, and the doctor can't bring himself to shatter the silence. This isn't something he can fix with a witty comment. Even if they could dig up the kid's name, what good would it be with no memories attached? It wouldn't mean a damn thing to Six. All he'd see is a name on a piece of paper. _That's why he doesn't want sympathy,_ Arcade thinks. _He doesn't need it._ The kid can't mourn someone he didn't know.

Six's fingers remain splayed over Arcade's stomach. His chest, flush against Arcade's back, is a warm, gentle presence in the darkness. The courier isn't so scary curled up behind him like this. He's just another person trying to survive. And he's fought hard for that privilege. They both have... together.

Christ, they're not just strangers anymore, are they? If not after the sex, then certainly not after this. There's something else mixed into the equation now, something tentative and new. It's more than just the need for a body watching his back. He knows they're more to each other than a finger on a trigger. Not lovers—not yet—but there is something tethering them together. Maybe it's as simple as trust. _Allies trust one another. That's what an alliance is,_ Arcade thinks. It's been so long since he's trusted anyone, perhaps he's forgotten what it feels like.

Arcade relaxes further into the mattress, lets his eyes fall shut. He's weary, hasn't slept nearly enough, and now is not the time for soul-searching. He lets the steady sound of Six's breathing lull him to sleep.


End file.
